


Cables

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Presents, Home for Christmas, M/M, Nervous Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John has questions about the jumper Sherlock has given him for Christmas. Sherlock's done a good job of avoiding answering, but things are not always in his control.





	Cables

**Author's Note:**

> Links and prompt at the end (spoilers, lovelies).

“Let’s do presents here,” said Sherlock, taking John by surprise.

“What?” John said, looking up from his laptop. “What, now?”

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach. He’d known this conversation would happen and had considered multiple potential reactions from John, but in the reality of the moment, his body was threatening to betray him. Working to keep his face impassive, Sherlock allowed one eyebrow to rise, waiting for John’s response.

“Yeah, okay.” John closed his computer and stood, throwing a glance at Sherlock. “I’ll just…” he gestured to the door, walking out and downstairs (present hidden with Mrs. Hudson, of course John). In his absence, Sherlock sprang up, taking the carefully wrapped present from its hiding place under John’s chair. When John returned, Sherlock was sitting back, waiting for him. His face had a carefully patient expression, even as the flutter in his stomach now twisted in a nauseating pattern.

“Merry Christmas,” said John, holding out a gift bag. Deliberately half ignoring it (less chance of an accidental deduction, John liked it when he was genuinely surprised), Sherlock abruptly thrust out a hand with his present for John.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock replied. They sat in their respective chairs looking at each other. Sherlock waited, wanting to watch every second of John opening and reacting to his gift. “Go ahead, John,” he encouraged, leaning forward to see the detail of John’s expression. Nodding, John began tearing at the wrapping paper, the soft package sagging a little across his knees. When the garish red paper had separated, revealing the fabric beneath, John’s hands slowed, fingertips ghosting over the softness.

“Sherlock?” His voice was quiet, and he dragged his eyes briefly up to meet Sherlock’s. In that brief moment, Sherlock saw confusion, delight and shock, before the dark blue was drawn back to the gift still partially wrapped on John’s knees. A slight swirl of his vision warned Sherlock, and he took a deep breath; holding his breath indefinitely was a bit not good. Not when he needed to see every bit of John’s reaction. Right now, John was pulling back the rest of the wrapping paper, revealing the intricately knitted pattern below. The paper floated unnoticed to the floor as he opened out the jumper, examining the colour (deep, not quite navy blue), the pattern (an ordered complex of cables) and the weight (comfortably heavy as pure wool always was). Sherlock was conscious of his breathing now, determining that John was (most likely) pleased with the gift, based on his breathing, gentle fingers and intense interest.

“Wow, this is…good. Beautifully made. Thank you,” said John, finally bursting the bubble of anxiety around Sherlock. _He likes it._

“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock, hoping his voice sounded normal to John. It sounded a little more strangled than usual to his ear. John was still looking at the jumper, a slight frown coming over his face.

“Did…did Mrs. Hudson make this?” John asked suddenly. “There’s no tag or anything.” He looked up at Sherlock now, a gaze that held instead of the fleeting glance of earlier. The years of enduring his brothers’ probing helped Sherlock draw his blank face over his emotions, though the truth was threatening to burst forth.

“No,” he answered evenly. “Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with the construction of that jumper, John.” Technically true, he told himself.

“Your Mum, then?” John frowned again, sitting back in his chair. “She doesn’t strike me as a knitter, to be honest.”

“She’s not.” Sherlock replied. “My mother did not knit that jumper, John.” Hoping to deflect John’s mind, Sherlock picked up his own gift bag and plunged one hand inside. His lack of attention made the contents a surprise. He was careful to allow these emotions to show; he wanted John to see his reaction, which would surely be favourable. His fingers closed over a book; Sherlock’s fingers felt the leather (old, well worn, a second-hand early edition) and he drew it out, blinking at the faded gold lettering. _Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up_ , Sherlock read, his heart stopping momentarily. He blinked, unsure of the meaning of this gift. Seeing it gave him a wealth of observation; opening the cover to read the title page confirmed his suspicion.

“This was yours?” Sherlock asked, his voice barely a whisper. He glanced up at John, a snapshot of intense concentration, the beginnings of a smile, a brief nod, then back to the book. ‘John H. Watson’ was inscribed in a childish hand on the title page. Sherlock found his fingers tracing the letters, wondering how to ask the question pulsing with his heart as it pushed blood through his body. _Why? Why? Why?_

“John?” he whispered, hoping John would understand. Nobody else would be able to know what he meant, but John…

“I loved that book,” John’s voice carried across the space between them. “The boy who never grew up, the pirates, bad guys and good…” he shrugged. “You never read fiction. I know you’ve deleted it all, even if you did read it as a child. I thought you’d like it.” Sherlock’s mind was whirling too fast to make solid deductions so he simply allowed the data to flow into his mind for later analysis. John was self-conscious, determined but soft…there was something soft there, something Sherlock couldn’t quite pick.

He blinked, sitting up as the book closed in his hands. “Thank you, John,” he said. “I’m sure I will.”

There was a silence there, a space allowed for either to say the words swirling; even Sherlock felt it. Unfortunately he knew himself, his own weakness, and there would be no risks taken here, not with John. When John did not speak, it appeared they might sit all day, the heavy awkwardness settling over them, emphasizing the space between their chairs.

“Ooh-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson trilled, bustling in with a tray of gingerbread and tea. “Oooh, you’ve done presents already! And it’s still two days until Christmas, and you going to your Mum’s too,” this was directed at Sherlock, “what will she think?”

“My exchange of presents with John has nothing to do with my mother, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock told her, taking a biscuit.

“Well I’m sure she’ll be disappointed.” Mrs. Hudson said a little stubbornly. She turned to John. “What did he get you, then? Nothing too macabre, I hope.” Sherlock had turned away, looking out the window as John evidently showed her his new jumper.

“Oh, John, that’s lovely!” she exclaimed. “The perfect colour for you, and what a wonderful pattern. Just like the oatmeal one you love, but…” her voice trailed off and Sherlock could imagine her bending over the material, eyes squinting to look closely at the stitches. “This is very skilfully done, John. Look how even the stiches are, and perfect tension. Sherlock? Sherlock!” her voice was reproving when Sherlock ignored her the first time, so he made an exaggerated sigh as he turned back to the room. As he suspected, Mrs. Hudson and John were bending over the fabric, their faces now tilted up to look at Sherlock.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked, deliberately being obtuse. He wanted her to ask a specific question. Volunteering information here could be…problematic.

“Who made this for you?” she asked pointedly. Although Sherlock’s eyes focussed on her, he could see John’s face waiting for his answer.

“Oh, does it really matter?” he asked. “It was handmade, as you have determined. Does the specific person make a difference?” Sherlock knew he was being rude, but this was not a line of questioning he was prepared to endure. There was too much at stake if…

“Well, you don’t have to be like that about it,” said Mrs. Hudson, her offense clear.

Sherlock sighed, making a grand gesture of kissing her cheek as he reached past her for another piece of gingerbread. “Your gingerbread is superb, as usual, thank you. John will bring the tray down when we are done.” Sherlock threw himself down, relieved to see John and Mrs. Hudson share a Look before she turned and made her way back downstairs.

“She was just asking, Sherlock,” John admonished him, pouring them both tea and passing another piece of gingerbread to Sherlock. He made a noise of dismissal, hoping John would drop the topic. Thankfully he did, and they passed the rest of the afternoon in relative quiet.

+++

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” Sherlock blustered as John dropped his overnight bag by their door. Sherlock had turned away from his experiment when John came down the stairs, frowning at the sight of his bag.

“She invited me,” said John, taking an unconscious battle stance – feet planted, arms crossed. “I’m not going to be so rude as to refuse your mother, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made an indelicate noise.

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, did you think of that?” John snapped, the sudden irritation taking Sherlock by surprise. “Sitting with Harry while she drinks? Or eating with a bunch of sad vets somewhere?” Sherlock blinked. He genuinely had not considered what John would be doing while he was in exile at his family home. While he would be pleased for John to accompany him under any other circumstances, Sherlock’s knowledge of his mother’s meddling meant there would surely be a confrontation during their three days at Musgrove. Unacceptable.

“Fine.” Sherlock replied, mind whirring. “I have one request, however.” John’s eyebrows rose, but he did not uncross his arms. Sherlock swallowed, making an active effort to soften his tone. “Please leave my Christmas present here.” John blinked. “What?” he asked.

“Don’t take your new jumper to Musgrove, John. Please.” The please was annoyingly plaintive, which he did not want. Nothing to be done about it now.

“Why?” John asked. “What is it with that jumper? Does this have something to do with whoever made it?” John’s eyes widened. Sherlock’s heart almost stopped until John said, “It was your mother, wasn’t it?” his arms had uncrossed as he pointed one finger at Sherlock, a half unbelieving smirk on his face. “You don’t want her to know who it was for!”

The relief he felt at John’s error made Sherlock chuckle. He realised his mistake almost immediately as John’s face hardened, the stubborn attitude of the soldier showing in every line of his body.

“The jumper is going, and so am I,” said John. He stomped over to his chair, rustling the newspaper unnecessarily to signal his displeasure. Sherlock carefully put down the beaker he had been examining and strode into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. As soon as it hit the doorframe, he leaned against it, head dropping back to hit the wood with a soft thump. Eyes closed, he worked through the scenario in front of him. John was not wearing the new jumper. Given that he was packed, it was unlikely that he planned to wear the new jumper to travel; if he’d spoken to Mummy, she would have told him that Christmas Eve was the ‘casual traditional’ evening in which presents were exchanged, brandy was drunk and, if everybody was amenable and Mummy was convincing enough, parlour games were played. That would be the most likely situation in which John would wear the jumper. Sherlock would simply have to prevent that from happening. If Mummy saw the jumper, it would all be over.

+++

“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Holmes.” John said, smiling at Sherlock’s mother welcomed him.

“Of course John! So lovely to finally meet you. I’m sure we both know how little Sherlock values these family events.”

Sherlock sniffed, kissing his mother and ignoring the gentle chuckles from her and John. He strode into the house, reluctantly waiting at the bottom of the stairs when his mother called.

“Sherlock Holmes! Don’t you leave your guest here. Show John to the guest room next to yours, please.”

“He’s not my guest, you invited him,” he grumbled, waiting for John nonetheless. Mummy chose to ignore him, watching affectionately as the two men began to climb the stairs, overnight bags in hand.

Sherlock stopped beside the larger of the guest rooms. “This is your room,” he said to John, who reached for the door. “John,” he added then paused, not sure how to express his intense need for John to hide the new jumper.

“Yes, Sherlock?” the careful patience in John’s voice was only ever present when he knew what Sherlock was about to say. The knowledge undermined Sherlock’s confidence, and he instead presented a hopefully stable (but probably shaky) smile. “Nothing. I’m next door if you need anything.”

Did he imagine the flicker of disappointment over John’s face? It was gone in an instant, replaced by a polite smile. Sherlock watched as John closed the door behind himself, waiting a long moment before walking to his own door, intending to settle himself in before finding the courage to ask John once more to forego the Christmas gift. His last chance.

An hour later, Sherlock was showered, his hair tamed, clean shirt buttoned. He had been restless, even his mind palace unable to keep him occupied; a shower had seemed to be the best way of filling the time. Now, annoying brother avoided, script for impeding conversation drafted, Sherlock knocked on John’s door.

“Sherlock? Come in!” John’s voice came through the door, and Sherlock entered the room, stepping just inside the door. John had showered, based on the slightly damp curl behind his ear and the humid smell of his body wash and shampoo coming from the open en-suite door. As Sherlock had feared, John was wearing the new jumper. It was an odd mix of emotion, his stomach dropping in disappointment while it swooped with desire at the sight of the jumper encasing John’s body. The colour was perfect, he absently agreed with Mrs. Hudson’s assessment; it set off his eyes and the shape of his torso at the same time. Sleeves a good length, rounded neck sitting nicely under his checked collar; it was evident that it had been made for him, and Sherlock felt another flush of desire as he looked at each element of the garment.

“Hi,” John said quietly. He was standing on the far side of the bed, and Sherlock was privately relieved they had some space between them. It made it easier, somehow, to concentrate on his prepared words if he wasn’t so distracted by John.

“Do you trust me, John?” Sherlock asked, the calculated question having the desired effect. John looked taken aback, almost hurt.

“Of course,” replied John immediately. “Why would you ask me that?”

“If you really trust me, please don’t wear that jumper tonight.” Sherlock saw the surprise at his ‘please’. So far John was reacting as Sherlock had predicted.

“Why, Sherlock?” John had spoken quietly but there was an underlying intensity.

“I can’t tell you,” replied Sherlock honestly, holding John’s gaze and hoping his sincerity radiated out with his words. He stood in silence, watching John assessing him, working through Sherlock’s request. It should take approximately thirty seconds for John to consider, after which he would…

“Do you trust me, Sherlock?” The question thrown back to him made Sherlock double take.

“What?” Sherlock asked without thinking. This was not part of his script.

“Do you trust me.” John’s voice was steady, and Sherlock looked him over, frowning. Why was he asking this?

“Yes. Yes, of course,” replied Sherlock. This was not how it was supposed to be going.

“If you trust me, Sherlock, you can tell me why you don’t want me to wear this jumper.” John indicated his torso as he spoke. His gaze was solid, calm, nonthreatening – but determined. Sherlock knew that look, and nothing would make John change his mind. He swallowed hard, debating. Either way, John would find out. Actually, there was a very small chance that he wouldn’t find out if Sherlock didn’t tell him. Despite the effort he’d made earlier, Sherlock now clung to that faint hope that the conversation he wanted to avoid would happen.

“I can’t.” The derisive voice in his head remarked how he must appear to John – eyes wide and pleading, voice wavering, lip held between his teeth. Sherlock dismissed it, angry at himself for even considering it. John wouldn’t notice; his mind was still trying to figure out the jumper question.

“Okay.” John’s voice broke through. “Well if you decide to let me know, I’d be happy to listen.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Shall we go downstairs? I think Mummy wanted us down there about now.”

Sherlock blinked. John wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t backing down, either. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock accepted his fate. There was nothing he could do now. “Certainly,” he replied, trying to smile back at John. He was frozen, unable to move. John walked to him, and to Sherlock’s astonishment he slipped his fingers into Sherlock’s loosely held fist, squeezing briefly before reaching for the door. He opened the door and stepped out, jerking his head to Sherlock in invitation.

Sherlock was still trying to assimilate the small action that had rocked his world on its axis. Why had John touched him that way? Since when had they been friends who held hands, or offered that kind of comfort? Was that what he was doing, offering comfort? Logic would then dictate that John recognised something in Sherlock that required comforting, some shadow of the angst he was experiencing. As he and John made their way down the stairs, he forced himself to pull out of his mind palace and into the present. He would have to be alert if he was to escape the potential worst case scenario for this evening.

“Good evening, brother,” Mycroft’s voice sounded from above, and Sherlock cursed that he had paused at the bottom of the stairs. John was waiting beside him, having had no explanation for their pause, but waiting nevertheless.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock bit out, willing his brother to just this once walk by without commenting. As it was, Mycroft descended the stairs like royalty deigning to join the masses, an attitude that riled Sherlock like no other. He met his brother’s eyes, knowing his defences were weakened, feeling the fire of defiance in his gaze. Mycroft raised one eyebrow before turning to John.

“John. Good evening,” Mycroft said, an oily smile on his face. Sherlock watched as in slow motion Mycroft’s eyes were drawn down to John’s attire. His eyebrows rose again, and he leaned in, examining the pattern.

“New jumper, John,” Mycroft asked, amusement tinging his tone.

“Yes,” John said, eyes flicking between the brothers. Sherlock could see that he felt the atmosphere, knew there was something the brothers knew that he was missing. Captain Watson was on alert.

“Lovely. Someone put a lot of effort into that. A labour of love, one might say,” Mycroft offered, before smiling again and walking past them. Sherlock could feel the blood pumping in his veins, breath loud in his ears as his lungs thankfully expanded without his input. He avoided John’s gaze and followed his brother. If John asked him again it was quite possible he would not be able to contain himself.

“Mummy,” Sherlock greeted his mother before turning to his father. His hands were shaking as he extended them to receive his eggnog. Knowing what was happening, Sherlock felt as though he was facing a madman. Adrenaline was pumping, voices muted behind the sound of air rushing in and out of his body. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock turned, just catching the look of surprise on his mother’s face as she saw John’s jumper. It was like a bad dream, the rest of the room blurring out, Mummy and John exaggerated in their movements and expressions. John was perplexed, wondering why Mummy was so interested in his jumper; though he could not hear her words, Sherlock knew from her animated expression and gestures that she was explaining her attention. John’s face was changing, his concentration giving way to understanding, fingers stroking unwittingly over the cables as he listened. When his mother finally stopped talking, they both turned to look at Sherlock. He felt the spotlight, peripheral vision showing vague shapes of his father and brother’s faces also trained on him. Mummy’s face was soft and loving, full of a mother’s affection, but it was the expression on John’s face that broke Sherlock’s will. It was understanding and empathy and affection, and more than Sherlock deserved.

“Excuse me,” he managed, thrusting his untouched eggnog at his father before striding at speed out of the library, blindly down the hall and out the nearest external door. He found himself in the side garden, a wild courtyard rarely used except to dry the roses his mother favoured in her pot-pourri. The cold air slapped his skin, tingling as it hit his face. There were no people here, nobody to ridicule or pity him. He could mourn the death of his association with John in peace, secure his last good memories and purge those he never wanted to see again. As his lungs drew icy breaths, Sherlock closed his eyes, wondering that people allowed themselves to care enough to risk this level of pain for any broken relationship.

“Sherlock?”

The sound of John’s voice was like a knife, the gentle tone honing the sharp blade as it tore into his heart.

“Just leave me. Please,” said Sherlock. He had not heard John come through the door and now the tentative touch on his shoulder made him jump, eyes flying open. John stood beside him, body language open, face still calm and soft. Sherlock blinked, looking at him, struggling to suppress his emotions long enough to read the expression on his face.

“Deep breaths, Sherlock,” John’s voice was calm and oddly soothing, and Sherlock found himself focussing on it, listening to the timbre as it smoothed his frazzled nerves. This might be the last time he heard it, and as John continued, Sherlock drank it in, filling himself with the unique sound of John, knowing it would never be enough to keep him going through the rest of his life.

“Sherlock.” John had stopped speaking, instead saying his name. Sherlock opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and looked at John.

“Listen to my words.” John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s, waiting until they were locked together, smiling encouragingly before he continued. Or possibly started again. “Your mum told me you know how to knit.” Sherlock nodded, confirming. There was no point trying to hide it now. “This is the pattern your nanny taught you to make.” He indicted his jumper, and Sherlock couldn’t help adding to the narrative.

“She made it for her husband.”

“She made it for her husband.” John repeated. His eyes were encouraging as he asked, “Do you remember what the pattern was called?”

“She told you,” whispered Sherlock.

“I want you to tell me.” John said.

Without thinking, without allowing the whispers of doubt in, Sherlock spoke. “Gift of Love. It’s…it’s a gift of love.” He felt the flush heat his face at the admission he had been holding close for so long. The smile that now broke over John’s face spoke volumes, and Sherlock listened to them, fascinated to find the same emotions he had denied for so long now playing over John’s face.

“I made your jumper.” Sherlock admitted, his head dropping, forehead pressing against John’s. “I chose the wool, I kept it with a friend. When I needed a…distraction, I went there instead of…other places.”

“A Gift of Love.” John repeated, voice full of emotion. “You could teach me, I could make one for you.”

John’s face was close now, too close to focus; Sherlock’s eyes had closed and he felt John’s hand still on his shoulder, sliding up to press against his neck. John’s breath puffed between them, mingling with Sherlock’s when their exhalations coincided; it felt like he was drawing part of John inside him, breathing in the air John had held in his body. As Sherlock relaxed, the anxiety he’d been carrying melting away with the heat now sliding through his body. He felt John’s head twist and reach, his nose touching Sherlock’s tracing a line along it, signalling his intention. With a flash of understanding Sherlock pushed forward, his mouth seeking John’s before he could close the gap. His skin was cold, lips warm and dry; Sherlock felt a moan pass his lips at the contact and marvelled that he had caused John to make such a sound. Desperate to hear it again, Sherlock pressed again, his mouth pushing against John’s, drawing a gasp of his own at the hint of wet heat as John opened his lips against Sherlock’s. Overwhelmed, Sherlock pulled away, pressing his forehead against John’s once again, breathing hard, wondering if he was experiencing life or some kind of break with reality.

“Knitting instead of cocaine, then?” John asked, the deep chuckle thrilling Sherlock like electricity though his core.

“Whatever works, John,” replied Sherlock. The voice in his head was quiet, silenced by the thrumming of his ecstatic heart.

_He loves me. He loves me. He loves me._

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt started as 'Thinking about ugly Christmas jumpers, why not make Sherlock knit one for John, hmm?' and morphed into 'Sherlock knits John a jumper but refuses to tell him where it comes from. It’s not til they get to Musgrove that Mummy recognizes it.'  
> Ah well. All's well that ends with Johnlock, right? <3
> 
> [This](http://www.yarnspirations.com/patterns/gift-of-love-cable-afghan.html) is the pattern on John's jumper (I know it's an afghan, Sherlock could totally incorporate the cables into a jumper).  
> [This](https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/223139356520437265/) is what the jumper will look like, with the Gift of Love pattern down the middle (and in a deep blue, of course).  
> <3


End file.
